


Pour A Little Sugar On Me

by SpangleBangle



Series: Thominho Week 2016 [3]
Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bakery, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Day 3 - Ordinary Jobs, Fluff, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, M/M, Minho the shamelessly flirty waiter, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Thominho Week 2016, and Thomas the quiet industrious baker, but very mild, mutual crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-16 14:16:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7271635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpangleBangle/pseuds/SpangleBangle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Day 3 - Ordinary Jobs</p><p>Thomas has a gigantic crush on one of their waiters. He's just too charming and good-looking, though. Thomas is obviously way out of his league.<br/>Minho cannot handle how cute and talented the pastry chef at his workplace is. He's just so, so cute. But there's no way he'd be interested.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pour A Little Sugar On Me

There was flour on the pastry chef’s nose and Minho wanted to die. How could somebody look so serious and cute all at once? Especially while icing petals onto a cupcake’s frosting? How could somebody concentrate like that with flour on their nose? Wasn’t it itchy? What if he sneezed?

“Order up,” the head waiter, Alby, said pointedly. Minho snapped out of his confused daydream and took the plates in his hands and fixed a 100-watt smile on his face.

“Hey there guys,” he greeted his customers. “How are we doing today? I’ve got one caramel cheesecake here – oh, is that for you? There you go miss, no trouble at all. And a red velvet cupcake here, sir. Can I get you any drinks refills? Mmhmm. Mmhmm. One latte and one jasmine tea, coming right up. You need anything else, just let me know.” He beamed and swept away to the drinks section of the open-plan café, where you could watch the cooks preparing everything while you waited. Part café, part bakery, all spectacle.

He whistled quietly as he got their drinks together on a tray, adjusted his dress shirt and penguin waistcoat uniform, and chattered to his customers while he served them. A big smile and tight shirt went a long way for tips and Minho was absolutely shameless about it. He had running shoes to save up for, after all.

As he turned away from them to greet his newest table, he could have sworn somebody was watching him. It wasn’t an unusual feeling – he was a waiter, after all, and honest enough to know he got checked out by customers pretty frequently. But this felt different from usual. He looked casually around as he walked to the kitchen, trying to pinpoint who it was. Then he saw from the corner of his eye, the pastry chef with flour on his nose turned abruptly away and refused to meet his eye. _Huh_. He figured the guy must have seen him flirting pretty hard with his customers and hoped it wouldn’t get reported to Alby. He was just doing his job, but didn’t want to seem like he was over the line.

Though later in the afternoon, when they had no customers, he had to laugh to himself. One of his tables, a group of five giggly university student girls, had left a generous tip and a napkin with five numbers on it. He wasn’t going to tell anybody about it, but another one of the waiters looked over his shoulder and started laughing.

“Oi, Casanova,” Newt sniggered. “Get back to work already.”

“Shut up Newt.”

“Never. Hey, everyone! Guess who just got a load of numbers as a tip!”

“ _Newt_ , you asshole.”

Thomas looked up from the batter he was stirring at the noise. The other cooks and waiters turned around as well. Thomas repressed the usual sigh of longing when he saw it was Minho in the centre of attention as usual. Christ. He knew it was good for business to hire attractive and charming people, but there has to be a limit somewhere, if only for the sake of poor sods like himself who were hopelessly distracted by them.

“How many numbers?” One of the other cooks called with a laugh.

“Five,” Minho replied with an embarrassed shrug.

 _You are so out of your league, Thomas._ He looked back to his work, checked the consistency of the batter and added a pinch more flour to thicken it. He tried to ignore the round of cheers and wolf-whistles, but it made his chest hurt.

“You gonna call any of them?” A waiter asked through the noise.

“No,” Minho replied, trying to be casual. Thomas stopped stirring despite himself, straining his ears.

“What?” Newt laughed. “Are you kidding me, Minho? Five gorgeous young women and you’re not even a little interested in _any_ of them?”

“Eh, they’re not my type,” Minho replied, sounding uncomfortable now. Thomas began measuring the batter into moulds.

The other waiters scoffed at him.

“What _is_ your type then?” Alby asked from behind the cash register.

“I dunno,” Minho muttered defensively. “I like quiet people. And anyway, it’s super creepy to date a customer. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going on my break and screw the lot of you.”

The others laughed and patted Minho on the back as he passed. Thomas kept working, disgusted at the way his heart was racing, all because Minho had said _people_ instead of _girls._ _Get a grip, honestly._ Despite himself, he glanced up as Minho passed him in that tight shirt and amazing waistcoat.

Minho smiled politely at him. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Thomas managed with a nod. He watched as Minho dropped the napkin with the numbers on it into the waste basket destined for the shredder, and leaned his impressive arms on the counter.

“What’re you making?”

“Madelines,” Thomas replied, gesturing to the scallop-shaped tray moulds in front of him.

Minho’s face lit up in excitement. “I love madelines! How are you decorating them, when they’re done?”

Thomas was a bit baffled as to why Minho cared, but was more than happy to have his attention, even if it was just shop talk. “About half will just be plain, and the rest I’ll dip in dark chocolate.” Thomas hesitated, then saw Minho was still watching and listening attentively. “I might do some sugar work, maybe make some caramel wisps to go on top, or decorations for the plate, if I get time tonight. Might not, though.”

“Sounds good in any case,” Minho smiled. Thomas looked back down to his flour-coated hands and shrugged, cursing how tongue-tied and awkward he became around Minho. “I quite like them with raspberry glaze, but that’s just me.”

Thomas immediately thought back to what they had in the fridge, whether they had any spare raspberries in stock not destined for Chuck’s jam doughnuts.

“Sweetened?” He asked before his brain caught up to his mouth.

“Nah, I like the sour tang. I figure the cake is usually sweet enough.”

Thomas nodded thoughtfully and did some quick calculations in the flour on his workspace. Minho tilted his head to watch. “What’s that for?”

“Hm? Oh, um. Nothing.” Thomas quickly scattered more flour over it. “Restless hands, I guess.”

“Right. Well, I won’t keep you from your work,” Minho smiled and stood up again. “Hope the madelines come out nice.”

“Thanks,” Thomas replied, daring a quick smile. “Have a good break.”

“Yep, see you in half an hour,” Minho grinned back, and sauntered away into the staff room.

Thomas took a breath and let it out slowly, then rubbed at his face until he remembered he was covered in flour. He sighed and left it there, getting back to work and trying to forget that they had maybe 20g of raspberries left over.

At the end of his shift, much later, Minho was waving goodbye to everyone else when Thomas caught his eye; the baker was trying to gesture him over but his hands were full of measuring spoons and jugs and other messy, sticky implements.

“What’s up?” Minho asked, leaning over the counter with a smile.

Thomas gave him a brief, distracted smile back while he juggled his load towards the sinks. “Um. There are some spare madelines in the proving drawer. If you want. Otherwise we’ll probably split them up between the kitchen.”

Minho opened the drawer curiously as Thomas started washing things, keeping his hands busy so he had an excuse not to have to meet Minho’s gaze.

Pity, if he’d turned around he would have seen the surprised and pleased look on the waiter’s face as he saw the little handful of madelines resting inside, all delicately brushed with perfect swirls of dark pink glaze. Minho tried not to get his hopes up. Had Thomas made these for him, after their conversation? Or, more accurately, he’d been using up surplus – hadn’t they made a batch of doughnuts earlier? Yeah, much more likely that he was just using up ingredients to reduce wastage.

Minho bit carefully into one and his heart thudded; the glaze was sour and unsweetened, almost aggressively contrasting the fluffy, sugary cake. Way sourer than natural raspberries. Not many customers would want to eat something so acerbic. Maybe he _had_ , actually… made them for Minho? No, that was stupid. Don’t go overboard, bucko.

He noticed Thomas watching him from the side, trying to be subtle about it.

“How did you get it so sour?” Minho asked once he’d swallowed his mouthful.

“I added fresh lime juice when the raspberries were reducing, and a bit of salt,” Thomas replied quietly. “Is it too much?”

“Probably,” Minho smiled and took another one. “But I really like them. Thanks, Thomas.”

That actually startled a _blush_ out of him and Minho had to control his urge to screech at the sight. And he had even more flour on his face. _End me. This is how I die, cute overload from sweet pastry chefs._

“You might as well take them all, if they’re really acidic,” Thomas suggested, turning back to his utensils.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Take them.”

Minho tucked them carefully into a takeaway bag. “Thanks again.”

Minho waited for Thomas to demur, say it was just using up the excess, that it didn’t mean anything, that he’d rather somebody ate them than shoved them in the bin, anything at all. But he just nodded and wished Minho a safe journey home.

It started a pattern of sorts between them. Every so often, when there was a pause in customers, Minho would wander over to Thomas’ table and they would chat about cake, biscuits or whatever desserts Thomas was making at the time. Never anything super personal except for maybe family recipes or preferences (Minho learned that Thomas was a sucker for bitter tastes like unprocessed coffee and baker’s chocolate, he preferred biscuits over cake and crunchy textures over soft). And every so often, at the close of business there might be something in the proving drawer that just so happened to match whatever they’d been talking about, and oh-so-conveniently, Minho would end up taking most of it home with him. 

It was making Minho so stressed.

He could never work out whether Thomas was flirting with him in a very quiet, passive way or was just being friendly. And he was constantly catching Thomas doing clever things with his hands as he ignored the noise of the shop and customers and the other cooks, working industriously away on his latest delicate, wondrous creation. Minho switched three orders around on the day Thomas was making tuile butterflies and cream-filled brandy snaps – what was a guy supposed to do, with all that concerned frowning and lip biting and careful finger twiddling? Never mind the way he handled the piping bag.

The pattern broke one day when Minho was pretty low on funds, so he was working extra hard and, naturally, buttering up the customers as much as he could to get those tips. Everybody got a compliment, a whispered admission that he’d added on a little extra topping just for them, a heartfelt enquiry about their day, regular checks on whether they were happy, generous drinks refills, and okay maybe he was wearing the shirt that had shrunk slightly in the wash so it stretched across his chest and arms. _So sue me,_ Minho thought as Newt gave him a jealous look over the size of the tip he was tucking into his pocket. _I got bills, screw you._

He glanced towards the kitchen, as had become his habit whenever he had a free moment, and snatched a glimpse of Thomas frowning at him, looking almost hurt, before turning abruptly away. Minho had a sudden ominous feeling, like he’d fucked up in some new, special way he’d never experienced before. A rush of tourists came in the door before he could go after Thomas, however, and he had to put on his biggest smile and most energetic voice once again.

Throughout the rest of the day, whenever Minho came near the kitchen or even looked in Thomas’ vague direction, Thomas avoided him. He worked head down and grimly focussed, a far cry from the occasional little smile or wave they’d been sharing recently across the café. Minho’s chest ached and his stomach twisted anxiously, not sure what was going on aside from the fact he’d probably done something bad and he had no idea what.

And at the close of business, Minho made a point to linger outside past the end of his shift, hoping to catch Thomas on his way out. There had been nothing in the proving drawer and not even a glance in his direction all day. When Thomas eventually came out, he frowned again at seeing Minho.

“What’s wrong?” Minho blurted, his chest feeling compressed and his hands shaking a little with anxiety. “You’ve been avoiding me all day.”

The few other cooks around rapidly dispersed, not wanting to witness the scene. Thomas shoved his hands in his pockets and grimaced down at the ground. He scuffed his shoe on the pavement and sighed before replying. “Are you always like that with your customers?”

_Huh?_

“Like what?”

Thomas’ mouth twisted. “Flirty. It was super obvious.”

“Well, no, not usually. Why?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It obviously does,” Minho shot back, hurt and confused. “What’s going on?”

Thomas glanced up at him for just a second, then back to the floor with his lip in his teeth. “Minho – do you…”

“What?”

Thomas’ face seemed to fold in on itself for a second. He straightened up and ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing. Sorry for being weird. See you tomorrow.”

He jogged away quickly, ostensibly to get to his bus stop on time. Minho sat down on the wall outside the café and thought very long and hard for a good half hour. Then, he got himself up, found a recipe on his phone, and walked with determination to the nearest supermarket.

The next morning, Minho arrived early for his shift, early enough to catch the kitchens starting to get things ready before opening. Thomas was there, of course, doing inventory and temperature checks. Minho checked he had his bag with him and walked right up to Thomas, who jumped at his greeting.

“Can I talk to you in the staff room for a minute?”

Thomas nodded silently and followed him. Minho closed the door behind them and took a small tin out of his bag.

“What do you think of these?”

Thomas opened the tin and his eyebrows shot up. Madelines. Not perfect by any means – they were all shapes and sizes, some paler, some having caught at the edges. There was a dull brown coating on them in inconsistent shapes, and it had no gloss or shine at all.

“They’re not as pretty as yours, I know, I’d never made them before and I couldn’t find the right mould so I had to improvise with a knife once they were done…”

Thomas demurred with a quiet noise in his throat and took one out, biting and chewing slowly. He closed his eyes to better concentrate on the taste. The cake sponge was good, sweet and soft at a good consistency. The coating was incredible – he picked up a lot of coffee, and kirsch spirits, and maybe some extremely dark chocolate mixed in. The cakes were not pretty at all, and probably far too odd and aggressive-tasting for most people.

“They’re very unusual. I like that. Why did you make them so bitter?” Thomas asked as he bit into another one.

“I listen. I know you like those tastes, so I made them that way. For you.”

Thomas kept his eyes on the tin.

“Look, Thomas. I don’t know what was going on yesterday but I have to say something, okay? I really like you. A lot. And I’d love to take you out to dinner sometime. If you’d want that.”

Thomas swallowed his mouthful and worked up the guts to look Minho in the face. “I was jealous, yesterday. When I saw you flirting with all the customers. And you were too busy to talk to me. I’m sorry.”

Minho heaved a sigh of relief.

Thomas smiled shyly back at him. “Dinner would be great, Minho. Tonight, maybe?”

Minho beamed and it was like the sun coming out after a rainstorm.


End file.
